No BFP or BFN to report; just a BFC. Big Fucking Chicken.
On the way to beta #1 this morning, I told Jeff that I couldn't take it anymore. The nightmares, the insomnia, the worry, the fear, the panic--I've reached a tightly coiled state of pent-up alarm.
I've spent two nights in that half-waking state of wheel-spinning angst--fretful visions of grotesque cells, lost babies and stark emptiness. In one, the doctor said that my three embryos had turned into cancerous tumors and had to be removed before they grew, though I was to die regardless. In another, Jeff was holding up an enormous pregnancy test, eight inches long and five inches wide, with a series of four lines--all varying shades of HPT magenta--and all I could think of was, How did he get my urine? Did I wet the bed? And I didn't want to tell him that the test was wrong, we're not pregnant, though I knew I should.
My brain spins and whirrs while I sweat and toss and beg for sleep, and every thought leads back to the question at hand: yes or no. Yes or no. Yes or no. Yes or no. It's so simple. There is an answer, and I can have it if I want it. I could call the doctor in an hour and demand the results; I could pee on a stick.
But still I don't. Though it would put an end to my circling agitation, the probability that it would be the end of this particular dream, and that I would come quite badly unglued for awhile, is not something I'm willing to hasten.
Jeff felt the same. He doesn't want to give up the inherent possibility to be found in not knowing. He wants to think on the Minnen Lamm and a Christmas delivery; he wants to ponder names and cribs and tiny clothes, right up till Wednesday afternoon.
So I sit in a dark room with my laptop, pecking away at the keys, stubbornly refusing to hasten my trip to the chopping block, and able to face one fact and one fact only: I am chicken. Hear me bok.